Theodore Savage

If it had been possible for Theodore Savage to place on record for those who came after him the story of his life and experiences, he would have been the first to admit that the interest of the record lay in circumstance and not in himself. From beginning to end he was much what surroundings made of him; in his youth the product of a public school, Wadham and the Civil Service; in maturity and age a toiler with his hands in the company of men who lived brutishly. In his twenties, no doubt, he was frequently bored by his clerking duties and the routine of the Distribution Office; later on there were seasons when all that was best in him cried out against confinement in a life that had no aspiration; but neither boredom nor resentment ever drove him to revolt or set him to the moulding of circumstance. If he was destined to live as a local tradition and superman of legend, the honour was not gained by his talents or personal achievements; he had to thank for it an excellent constitution, bequeathed him by his parents, certain traces of refinement in manner and speech and the fears of very ignorant men.

When the Distribution Office⁠—like his Hepplewhite furniture, his colour-prints and his English glass⁠—was with yesterday’s seven thousand years, it is more than possible that

“Five minutes,” said Markham.⁠ ⁠… He laughed suddenly and pushed the bottle across the table. “Do you know where we are now⁠—you and I and all of us? On the crest of the centuries. They’ve carried us a long roll upwards and now here we are⁠—on top! In five more minutes⁠—three hundred little seconds⁠—we shall hear the crest curl over.⁠ ⁠… Meanwhile, have a drink!”

He checked himself and held up a finger. “Your watch is slow!”

The hum and murmur of the crowd had ceased and through silence unbroken came the prayer of the Westminster chime.

Lord⁠—through⁠—this⁠—hour Be⁠—Thou⁠—our⁠—guide, So⁠—by⁠—Thy⁠—power No⁠—foot⁠—shall⁠—slide.

There was no other sound for the twelve booming strokes of the hour: it was only as the last beat quivered into silence that there broke the moving thunder of a multitude.

“Over!” said Markham. “Hear it crash?⁠ ⁠… Well, here’s to the centuries⁠—after all, they did the best they knew for us!”

It was late, nearing midnight, when he finished his letter and, for want of other occupation, turned back to a half-read evening paper; the communiqués were meagre, but there was a leading article pointing out the inevitable effect of displacement on the enemy’s resources and morale, and he waded through its comfortable optimism. As he laid aside the paper he realized how sleepy he was and rose yawning; he was on his way to the door, with intent to turn in, when the rapping on the window halted him. He pulled aside the blind and saw a face against the glass⁠—pressed close, with a flattened white nose.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pushing up the window. It was Hewlett, one of his juniors at the office, out of breath with running and excitement.

“I say, Savage, come along out. There’s no end going on⁠—fires, the whole sky’s red. They’ve come over at last and no mistake. Crashaw and I have been watching ’em and I thought you’d like to have a look. It’s worth seeing⁠—we’re just along there, on the wall. Hurry up!”

The boy was dancing with eagerness to get back and Theodore had to run to keep up with him. He and Crashaw, Hewlett explained in gasps, had spent the evening in a billiard-room; it was on their way back to their diggings that they had noticed sudden lights in the sky⁠—sort of flashes⁠—and gone up on the wall to see better.⁠ ⁠…

His stealth and precaution were needless. The village from a distance might have passed for uninjured⁠—the flames that had blackened its fields had swept by it, and the houses, for the most part, stood whole; but there was no living man in the long, straggling street, no movement, save of birds and the pattering little scuffle of rats. The indifferent life of beast and bird had taken possession of the dwellings of those who once tyrannized over them; and not only of their dwellings but their bodies. At the entrance of the village half-a-dozen skeletons lay sprawled on the grass-grown road, and a robin sang jauntily from his perch on the breastbone of a man.⁠ ⁠… From one end of the street to the other the bones of men lay scattered; in the road, in gardens, on the thresholds of houses⁠—some with tattered rags still fluttering to the wind, some bare bones only, whence the flesh had festered and been gnawed. By a cottage doorstep lay two skeletons touching each other⁠—whereof one was the framework of a child; the little bones that had once been arms reached out to the death’s-head that once had borne the likeness of a woman.⁠ ⁠…

There was a time when Theodore would have turned from the sight and fled hastily; even now, familiar though he was with the ugliness of death, his flesh stirred and crept in the presence of the grotesque litter of bones.⁠ ⁠… These people had died suddenly, in strange contorted attitudes⁠—here crouching, there outstretched with clawing fingers. Gas, he supposed⁠—a cloud of gas rolling down the street before the wind⁠—and perhaps not a soul left alive!⁠ ⁠…

He had not slept long⁠—for the logs still glowed redly and flickered⁠—when he started into wakefulness that was instant, complete and alert. Something⁠—he knew it⁠—had stirred in the silence and roused him; he sat up, peered round and listened with the watchful terror instinctive in the hunted, be the hunted beast or man. For a moment he peered round, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the whisper of the fire and the beating of his own heart⁠ ⁠… then, in the blackness, two points caught the firelight⁠—eyes!⁠ ⁠… Eyes unmistakable, that glowed and were fixed on him.⁠ ⁠…

He stiffened and stared at them, open-mouthed; then, as a sudden flicker of the dying flame showed the outline of a bearded human face, he choked out something inarticulate and made to scramble to his feet. Swift as was the movement he was still on a knee when someone from behind leaped on him and pinned both arms to his sides.⁠ ⁠… As he wrestled instinctively other hands grasped him; he was the held and helpless captive of three or four who clutched him by throat, wrist and shoulder.⁠ ⁠…

By that token he was back among men.